


Christmas is ForGiving

by RavenMorganLeigh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Betrayal, Christmas, Drunk John, Evil Mary, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post HLV, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock - Freeform, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:07:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5863150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenMorganLeigh/pseuds/RavenMorganLeigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John learns the truth about his marriage at the worst possible time of year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas is ForGiving

Christmas Is ForGiving  
By Raven Morgan Leigh for BreathingIsBoring  
Secret Santa Fic Exchange 2015

**

 

2 PM: The Watson's. Christmas Eve. “JOHN!” Mary’s irritated voice rang throughout the flat, combining with the shrill, anguished howling of the littlest Watson, Claire. On the couch, pressed as far into the cushions of the couch as he could get, John Watson screwed up his eyes, and clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, remaining silent. 

3:50 PM: Something heavy clanged to the floor in the kitchen. “John!” Mary called, sharply. “Come and help me!” John buried his face into the back of the couch. Claire began to cry again. 

3:55 PM: Something was burning and an acrid stench of smoke began to waft into the sitting room, making John’s eyes water. He absolutely could not make himself get up off the couch, he couldn’t make himself answer his wife. Tears began to slip down his cheeks and he told himself that it was the smoke. 

4:20 PM: Something warm and wet and stinky was shoved into his arms. Mewling. Crying. John opened his eyes. His arms were full of wriggling, wet 18-month old girl. Her diaper was leaking. Her eyes were leaking, too. Along with her nose. John blinked. His daughter. But she didn’t feel— like his. 

He thought back, feeling numb. When Claire was born, John had a lot of trouble bonding with her. Of course, there had been no lack of impediment caused by his wife. Mary had gone to a private hospital for the birth and said that she preferred to have the baby on her own, “in dignity”. Said something about how witnessing a birth was bad for the sex life in a marriage. Not that they’d been having sex, anyway. Not after Mary shot Sherlock. John hadn’t even seen his daughter until nearly three days after the birth. He hadn’t even been allowed to hold her until Mary was sure he’d not pass on anything to her. Mary named the child Claire, after her favorite magazine. John thought it was as good a name as any. 

So now, John felt— disconnected from this tiny child, screaming in his lap. He had to force himself to pick her up, and take her to the bathroom for a change. He hated every minute of it and hated himself for it. He brought the child back into the kitchen. Mary stood at the counter, mixing bowl before her, a carton of eggs precariously perched on a cookbook. 

“No.” Mary took one look at John, frowning. “It’s your turn.” She broke an egg into the mixing bowl. “Everyone will be here tonight, and I’ve got to get this done.” “She cracked another egg, cursed, then fished broken eggshell out of the bowl. “Finish the tree.” 

“Mary—” John started.

“The tree, John. The rest of the fairy lights, the tinsel! Finish. Take Claire with you.” 

John didn’t feel like arguing. He took Claire into the sitting room and sat her on the floor. She was sniffling again. John tried to distract her with tinsel and finally gave her a handful. She settled after that, gurgling merrily as she ripped it to pieces and mouthed it. 

John put on the radio, horrible, maudlin Christmas music, but that was what Mary wanted, so that’s what they listened to. She insisted, because it was normal. And that’s what they were. Normal. That’s what John had wanted, too, he reminded himself. Normality. Boring, banal, stultifying normality. 

He’d gone to visit Sherlock one day in June and told Sherlock that from then on, he had to focus on his family. He wouldn’t have time for cases. He needed to keep his family safe. Sherlock said it first. “And, I’m not safe.” And, with a sad pained smile, Sherlock had held out his hand to shake John’s in farewell. John couldn’t take it, not this time. He simply had said, “Goodbye, Sherlock,” and then he’d left, never to return to 221B. He’d never looked back. 

Mary had lots of friends. John had none of his own. Mary’s friends would come tonight and eat their food and exchange presents and John would try to be normal. But he wasn’t normal was he? No matter how much he wanted to be or tried to be, he felt as if he were suffocating in Mary’s forced normality. 

This is what you signed up for, John reminded himself. You forgave her, and that’s that. You chose this.

 

6:21 PM: John jolted awake. Claire was gone. Someone was banging at the door. There was yelling. More like command voices. John shot to his feet, went to the door. “Mary?” She must have put Claire down for a nap. “Mary?” No answer. Errand? John looked through the peephole. Two men looked like coppers— or maybe Mycroft’s minions. Heaving a great sigh, John opened the door. 

Both men were tall and broad and grim. 

“Yes?” John answered. 

One of the men, with sandy crew-cut hair and horn-rimmed glasses, spoke while his darker, non-bespectacled partner sized John up. “We have a warrant for the arrest of Mary Watson.” 

John went cold as the sandy-haired man flashed his badge. Interpol. And American CIA— John thought as the other man held out his badge for inspection. 

“For what?” 

“Where is she, Doctor Watson?” 

John heard voices behind the men and peered around them to see what had happened. 

There were a lot of people— a lot of them— CO19 Force Firearms Unit? More agents from America?

John could hear glass breaking in the kitchen, the kitchen door thudding open— the heavy tread of booted feet— the ratcheting sound of weapons being cocked, loaded for bear.

“She’s not here.” One of the men said. The sandy-haired agent gave John an appraising glance. 

 

“The child?”, he asked.

 

“Claire?” John whispered.

 

“No. AGRA took her, too.” 

 

“Claire.” John sank to the floor. “Mary—” 

 

**

 

9:35PM. 

All of the officers and agents had gone. John sat on the floor in a detritus of toppled tree, trampled presents and rifled and scattered belongings. 

All of Mary’s weapons had been confiscated. John’s old gun had been locked away in storage, and so hadn’t been at the flat. Mary had kept all her old gear… in very good shape, shut behind a false wall in the hall closet. Two of the guns had recently been fired, cleaned. John’s and Mary’s joint accounts had been cleaned out. All of Claire’s clothes were gone. Diapers, everything. Of course, Claire had never been John’s to begin with. For that matter, neither was Mary. 

It was all gone. Everything. The dream was gone. 

 

And what Mary had done… there was no coming back from this. Not ever. 

 

John got up off the floor and went to get his day bag. In it, under the folded shirts, and other things he took with him on his ride to work— a respectable roll of cash. He stuffed it in his jeans pocket along with his phone, then picked up his coat off the floor and walked out of the flat.

 

**

 

10:50 PM, Kinnison’s Pub.

John wanted to forget. He kept slamming shots of whiskey, and he slammed beer after beer. He still remembered. He wanted to slam his head against the wooden bar but sensed that would only get him thrown out. So, he refrained and had another two fingers of whiskey. He wanted to scream, but he was feeling warm, (actually sweating) and hazy and soft and hurt and angry but too drunk to do anything about it. He dug his phone out of his pocket, dropped it, and nearly fell off the bar stool retrieving it. He clambered back up and punched in a number. 

“John.” A female voice, gravelly. Oh, right— his sister. 

 

John could barely get his mouth to work. “Harr—”

 

“John, what’s wrong?” 

 

“She’s— Harry— I think I’m drunk.” 

 

“Where are you?” 

 

**

Sometime later, that night:

There was someone sitting next to him. He was in a dark place. But he’d been at the bar— where— what had happened?

“John?” 

 

That voice.

 

“John, are you hearing me?”

 

“Where am I ?” John whispered. His head hurt. His eyes hurt. It was too— everything.

 

“John, it’s me.” John’s eyes finally focused on a very worried looking Sherlock. “You’re at Baker Street. Harry called me.” 

 

“Tired.” John felt himself slipping, inexorably into the pit of the dead drunk. He wasn’t going to be conscious much longer. “Spinning.”

 

Sherlock sighed. “I know. Down you go. Try to sleep.” 

 

**

 

John woke up in the dark. It felt familiar. It smelled right. Comforting. There was enough light in the room to see his phone on his bedside table. He got it, groaned. Hungover—no, still drunk. 2AM. He wasn’t at home. 

He was in his old bedroom at Baker Street. Sherlock had to have come to get him from the bar. 

Back at baker Street. He started to get up. He wasn’t supposed to be here. This was all Sherlock’s fault. 

He wept. 

 

**

 

3:45PM. Christmas Day, Baker Street. 

 

Murmuring voices downstairs in the sitting room. Mycroft, then. Right. Time to face the music. 

“Dr. Watson.” Mycroft sat in Sherlock’s chair, looking unusually grim. 

Sherlock sat on the sofa, as brittle and pained as John had ever seen him. He stared at Mycroft, his expression almost pleading. 

John made his way to his own chair and sank into it. “What happened to Mary and Claire?” He was proud that his voice wasn’t shaky. Both his hands were, but he couldn’t even be bothered to hide it.

 

Mycroft pursed his lips. He bowed his head, then raised it to meet John’s eyes. “I’m truly sorry to tell you this, John. Mary has been captured and is being extradited back to the United States where she will be held on charges of murder and kidnapping. That’s in addition to other international charges. Claire will be sent back to her father, in Peoria, Illinois.” 

John couldn’t speak. He tried, but all that came out was a wheezing breath as if he’d been punched hard in the solar plexus. 

Sherlock half-rose from his seat, but sank back down— hands flopping in his lap, uselessly. His eyes were sad, so sad. 

Mycroft’s voice was a little hoarse. “Mary murdered Claire’s mother for the baby. That’s why you weren’t allowed anywhere near the birth— because there was no birth. She wanted you to think the child was yours, but since she was never pregnant—” 

“Oh, God.” John choked, “She— was a monster—”

“I’m so sorry, John.” Mycroft stood. “I will personally take care of any details or arrangements needed. I promise you,” he said— looking first at John and then Sherlock, who nodded slowly. “—I’ll do all I can for you.” He left, and then John and Sherlock were alone. 

 

**

 

“So, how long did you know?” John spat. 

 

Sherlock just looked at John. “What?” 

 

“You had to have known.” John launched himself up from the chair, beginning to pace around the room. “You know everything. You knew.” 

“No- John, I—” 

“This is your fault.”

“John—” 

John sputtered in his rage, "You-- you LIED to me. About Moriarty, about MARY! Why didn't you tell me! Why didn't you warn me---"

Sherlock stood, eyes on the carpet, shoulders hunched. "I didn't lie to you about Mary." He lifted his gaze to meet John's. "I stayed out of it because I thought that's what you wanted. That's what you told me you wanted, John."

"So it's MY fault! Always, always--- "

"I didn't choose for you---"

"YES YOU DID!" John howled, stepping towards Sherlock, both hands clenched into fists. "You bloody well did choose for me. YOU made the decision to make me think you were dead, just so you could go off and play hide-and-go-seek with Moriarty's people. It was fun for you, was it? Easy to fool John. YOU decided not to deduce Mary, and left me to marry a bloody assassin! You're the reason Claire doesn't have a mother-- you're the one-- you're responsible-- you ruined my whole life--" 

 

Sherlock’s legs seemed to go out from under him and he fell to his hands and knees, his whole body trembling. “Stop it, John.”, he whispered. “Please, stop.” 

 

John looked down at his hands, made into brutal fists. He’d been about to hit Sherlock. Again. He really thought he would have killed him, beaten him until he was pulped flesh, bloody and lifeless. He could see it so clearly and it made him gag. What kind of man was he? Shuddering with horror, he backed away. “What am I doing? What—” 

“Please, John— don’t go.” Sherlock sat back on his heels, exhaustedly. “Don’t leave. Stay here, with me.” 

“I—” Unwillingly, John took a hesitant step towards Sherlock. 

“John, it’s Christmas.” 

John reached down, and Sherlock took his hand to be pulled to his feet. They stood, two men, damaged men— men who had hurt each other in the worst ways; two men who needed each other to heal, to love and be loved. There could be no more secrets. 

“I missed you so much, Sherlock.” John reached out and grasped both Sherlock’s wrists. “I’ve missed you so terribly…because I’ve always loved you, and I could never admit it.” 

“I know. I love you, too.” Sherlock bent his head to touch his forehead to John’s. “Do you think we can—”

 

“Forgive each other?” John moved closer to Sherlock and released his wrists to slide both arms around him. They were leaning against each other, holding each other up. That’s how it should have been from the beginning. 

 

“I think we can. ” Sherlock said, voice husky against John’s ear, the corner of his mouth. “It’s Christmas, John. Anything is possible.”

 

Fini


End file.
